The  Walls 


o 


THE  WALLS 
of  tfAMELIN 


BY  CHARLES  W.  KENNEDY 


PRINCETON  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

LONDON:  HUMPHREY  MILFORD  :  OXFORD  UNIVERSITY  PRESS 

PRINCETON  :  MCMXXII 


Copyrighted  and  Published  1922  by  Princeton  University  Press 
Printed  by  the  Princeton  University  Press,  Princeton,  U.S.A. 


TO 

BARBARA  GARY  KENNEDY 
THIS  LITTLE  BOOK 


R89175 


FOR  permission  to  reprint  certain  of  the  poems  in  this  vol 
ume  the  author  thanks  the  editors  of  SCRIBNER'S  MAGA 
ZINE,  AMERICAN  MAGAZINE,  EVERYBODY'S  MAGAZINE, 
AINSLEE'S  MAGAZINE,  and  AMERICAN  POETRY  MAGAZINE. 


Contents 

i 

I   HAVE  KNOWN  BEAUTY  3 

O   SINGING  HOUR  OF   LOVE  5 

LOVE'S  MEMORIES  7 

MOTHS  1O 

A  HOMESPUN   HEAVEN  1  1 

ONCE  CAME  A  FLAME       '  13 

ON  THE  BREAKWATER  15 

MEMORY  17 

SWEETER,  FAIRER  THAN  ALL  THESE  l8 

O  NEVER  SPRING  RETURNS  21 

THE  SHINING  DARK  22 

SPRING  IN  PROVINCETOWN  23 

THE  MARSH  25 

BEACH  SAND  26 

RAGGED  SAILORS  28 

SOON  COMETH  MAY  29 

A  GRAY  DAY  3 1 

IN  THE  MIST  33 

LOVE  WALKED  WITH  ME  34 

AND  THEN  CAME  SPRING  36 

0  WHERE  DOTH  BEAUTY   DWELL  37 

II 

THE  TURNING  TIDE  4! 

YOU  WHO  ONCE  WALKED  BESIDE  ME  43 

THERE  IS  A  SECRET  MUSIC  44 

THE  ENCHANTED  WOOD  4£ 

BESIDE  THE  HEARTH  46 

IN  A  CHILD'S  GARDEN  47 

LOVE  TOOK  THE  SWIFTNESS  OF  WIND  48 

THE  WISH  I  WISH  TONIGHT  49 

1  HUNG  THE  WALLS  WITH  HOLLY  BOUGHS  5! 
THE  ORACLE  £2 
DEPARTURE  53 
I  SHALL  RETURN  54 


ORCHARD  TREES  55 

WHEN  SPRING  RAN  LAUGHING  DOWN  THE  HILL  57 

THE  END  OF  THE  DAY  58 

BROTHERS  OF  THE  WIND  59 

THEY  THAT  GO  DOWN  TO  THE  SEA  6l 

DEATH  IN  THE  REEDS  63 

THE  SHIP  OF  DREAMS  64 

NIGHT  JEWELS  65 

THE  QUEST  66 

GHOST  SHIPS  67 

VANISHED  SAILS  69 

BEAUTY   DOTH    EVER  TEASE  JO 

THE   SHORES   OF   SLEEP  7 1 

III 

AS  I  WENT  DOWN  TO  PROVINCETOWN  /5 

THE  LONG  ROAD  78 

THE  TRUANT  79 

HEART'S  DESIRE  80 

WHO'LL  BUY  A  ROSE  81 

SILVER  PENNIES  82 

A  PREACHER  IN  THE  MARKET  83 

DAY  AFTER  DAY  84 

THE  GATES  OF  DAWN  85 

IV 

THE  TORCH-BEARERS  89 

PRINCETON,   1917  91 

TO  H.  C.  B.  92 


A  CHRISTMAS  CHARM  9> 

NURSERY  SONGS  FOR  CHRISTMAS  EVE  96 

THREE  SONGS  FOR  CHRISTMAS  98 

A  CHRISTMAS  PRAYER  10O 

VI 

THE  WALLS  OF  HAMELIN  1O3 


/  Have  Known  Beauty 


O  rain-sweet  loveliness  of  the  warm  earth,  ,\\  ; 
Returning  with  the  May  in  green  rebirth ! 
Thou  who  art  beauty  in  the  flowering  grass, 
A  singing  in  the  summer  winds  that  pass, 
A  bird-note  wild  beside  the  violet  sea, 
Or  snow-drift  blowing  from  the  wild  plum  tree ! 
Thou  wise  interpreter  of  noisy  years, 
Cherishing  pain  and  glorifying  tears, 
Depart  not  from  me — be  my  light  to  mark 
The  way  unto  the  still,  enfolding  dark. 

What  silent  magic  lights  thy  dreaming  grace 
Filling  the  wind  and  every  haunted  place 
With  memories  of  love — O  wild  and  sweet 
The  wind-blown  grasses  round  thy  rose-white  feet ! 
That  bird-song — doth  it  rain  from  yonder  tree 
Or  from  remembered  gardens  by  the  sea 
Long  years  ago  ?  The  sorcery  of  the  moon 
Hath  borrowed  golden  splendor  from  a  noon 
Long  vanished,  when  the  blue  skies  dreamed  above 
A  wild  earth  singing  round  the  feet  of  love. 

O  loveliness  of  the  enchanting  earth ! 
Thou  dream  divine  of  beauty  come  to  birth ! 
Thou  art  our  love  of  life,  our  hate  of  death, 
Thou  art  our  heritage — thou  art  the  breath 
Of  all  our  being  in  the  sunlit  years 


That  hasten  unto  night.  O  loveliness, 
Be  thou  beside  me  with  thy  soft  caress. 
Bring  to  mine  ears,  till  sound  shall  come  no  more, 
The  organ-swell  of  breakers  on  the  shore, 
The  robin's  song  from  some  white  orchard  tree 
Wind-tossed  upon  high  cliffs  beside  the  sea, 
The  cry  of  fishing  sea-gulls,  shrill  and  harsh, 
Borne  on  the  sea  wind  from  the  salt  sea  marsh. 

Bring  thou  the  fragrance  of  dark,  mountain  pines, 
Of  fern-rimmed  pools,  and  skyward  clambering  vines  ; 
Bring  thou  the  warm  scent  of  wide  meadow  spaces, 
The  silence  of  old  gardens,  and  still  places 
Amid  the  beech  woods ;  bring  the  memory 
Of  dreaming  days  beside  the  whispering  sea 
And  dreaming  nights  when  interlacing  spars 
Made  shadowy  patterns  to  enclose  the  stars. 
Beauty  that  having  been  shall  always  be  ! 
Do  thou  enfold  me  with  thy  mystery 
Through  all  the  years — a  witchery,  a  flame, 
A  melody,  a  sweetness  beyond  name. 

O  loveliness  of  the  enchanting  earth ! 
O  haunting  splendor  that  doth  stamp  the  worth 
Of  all  our  hope  of  life  and  dream  of  death, 
Be  with  me — stir  me — fill  me  with  thy  breath ! 
Lift  up  mine  eyes  upon  the  flowering  light 
That  takes  a  glory  from  the  coming  night. 
So  may  I  say,  when  the  last  hour  is  spent, 
"I  have  known  beauty" — and  so  sleep  content. 


O  Singing  Hour  of  Love 

O  singing  hour  of  love ! 
O  flower  of  dreams 
Fairer  than  stars  above 
Clear  running  streams ! 

Thou  only  hast  the  key 
Of  beauty's  house, 
Beset  with  melody 
Under  white  boughs. 

All  hues  of  changing  light 
Are  beauty's  dower ; 
Breath  of  the  coming  night, 
And  fading  flower 

Wherewith  the  wind  is  sweet . . . 
All  transient  things 
Running  with  frail  feet 
And  fragile  wings. 

She  weaveth  nets  of  dew 
For  budding  flowers ; 
She  crowneth  earth  with  blue 
And  silver  hours. 


Knowing  that  death  comes  after, 
And  the  dark, 

She  toucheth  life  with  laughter ; 
And  the  lark 

Singeth  alway  her  song : 
That  earth  is  dear 
Because  no  hour  is  long, 
And  night  is  near ; 

Singeth  that  love  is  sweet 
Under  the  sun, 
Because  time  runneth  fleet 
For  love  begun. 


Loves  Memories 

Three  seals  upon  my  heart  are  set 
With  magic  light  that  lingers  yet , 
Love's  memories  that  shall  not  pass 
While  sun  is  warm  upon  the  grass, 
And  moonlight  sleeps  upon  the  hill. 
Though  the  gray  years  work  their  will 
To  dull  the  pain  of  beauty,  Spring, 
With  budding  rose  and  bluebird's  wing, 
Shall  find  me  still  remembering. 

One  first  taught  me  of  the  sea 

And  all  its  faithless  witchery ; 

Taught  me  joy  of  ropes  and  spars, 

Sailing  under  friendly  stars. 

On  the  wide,  warm-scented  beaches, 

Where  the  nodding  marsh-grass  reaches 

Beckoning  arms  to  golden  light, 

We  dreamed  by  day,  we  dreamed  by  night. 

Beach  pea,  beach  plum,  bayberry, 

Flowered  in  beauty ;  the  laughing  sea 

Slowly  climbed  the  pebbled  shore, 

Tapping,  tapping,  at  the  door 

Of  the  green,  inviolate  earth. 

By  the  dreams  that  came  to  birth, 

By  the  dreams  that  linger  still, 

Though  the  light  pales  on  the  hill, 


Though  the  cliffs  fail  in  the  sea, 
Thy  seal  is  set  on  memory. 

One  called  me  once  to  walk  with  him 

In  a  far  land  beyond  the  rim 

Of  barren  days,  where  sunlight  shone 

More  golden-warm  than  heart  has  known 

Save  on  blue,  Homeric  seas, 

Or  gardens  of  Hesperides. 

He  laid  a  book  before  mine  eyes, 

And  all  the  singers,  all  the  wise, 

Heart-broken  dead  became  my  friends. 

In  the  black  night  when  doom  descends 

He  taught  me  law ;  out  of  the  dust 

He  showed  me  beauty's  upward  thrust 

To  life  and  light ;  ah !  when  no  more 

His  hand  shall  be  upon  the  door, 

I  shall  not  lose  him — in  each  spark 

Of  beauty  singing  in  the  dark, 

His  voice  shall  come  unto  mine  ear, 

And  I  shall  know  him  somehow  near. 

One  came  with  tender,  starry  eyes 

Under  the  blue,  unclouded  skies, 

And  all  the  green  earth  flamed  with  light, 

And  beauty  singing  in  the  night. 

Life  became  a  dream,  a  vision, 

A  haunting  light  on  streams  Elysian, 

A  fragrance  of  the  wild  grape  crushed, 


A  dew-flower  in  the  dawn  light  hushed. 
By  earth  transformed  and  magic  skies 
Her  seal  is  set  until  life  dies, 
And  longer,  longer,  if  there  be 
Some  echo  of  life's  melody. 

Three  seals  upon  my  heart  are  set 
With  magic  light  that  lingers  yet ; 
And  the  last  sun-warmed,  fragrant  Spring 
Shall  find  me  still  remembering. 


Moths 

I  would  not  climb  the  lighthouse  stair 
In  the  dim  night, 

Because  of  little  ghosts  that  flutter  there 
About  the  light ; 

Pale,  fragile,  broken  wings  that  beat 
Against  the  glass, 

Light  as  the  fingers  of  the  west  wind  sweet 
Upon  the  grass. 

O  pale  moths,  in  this  dawn  of  Spring, 
Hath  one  frail  spark 
Of  wonder  drawn  you  broken,  fluttering, 
Into  the  dark  ? 

O  still  and  beautiful,  brave  death ! 
O  swift,  sweet  pain  ! 

To  be  made  fey  with  beauty  until  breath 
Is  softly  slain ! 


A  Homespun  Heaven 

Some  day  when  I  have  reached  the  end 
Of  all  the  strength  I  have  to  spend, 
When  shadows  lengthen  from  the  west 
And  time  has  come  to  stop  and  rest, 
If  heaven  be  a  place  apart 
Where  peace  is  sealed  upon  the  heart, 
I  think  I'll  try  my  hand  alone 
And  build  a  heaven  of  my  own. 

0  golden  streets  are  fine,  no  doubt, 
And  golden  rivers  flowing  out 

By  pearly  gates ;  such  dreams  evoke 
A  joy,  perhaps,  for  inland  folk. 

1  want  a  sweep  of  sand  and  sea ! 
Beyond  a  wind-blown  apple  tree 
Tossing  in  the  salty  gale 

I  want  the  sea-line  and  a  sail ! 

I'll  build  my  heaven  where  great  winds  come, 
Where  bayberry  and  wild  beach  plum 
Spill  their  fragrance  on  the  wind. 
Under  gnarled,  twisted  apple  boughs 
I'll  find  a  spot  to  build  love's  house, 


With  white-washed  walls  and  hanging  eaves, 
With  moss-grown  roof  to  match  the  leaves  .  . 
Still  place  of  peace  to  heal  the  mind  .  .  . 
Where  windows  open  to  the  breeze 
And  the  sleepy  drone  of  bees. 

I'll  have  a  glass  to  scan  the  sky, 
To  watch  the  plunging  ships  go  by 
When  comes  the  menacing,  dull  roar 
Of  racing  breakers  on  the  shore. 
Upon  my  walls  I'll  have  a  row 
Of  ten,  wise,  magic  books  I  know, 
To  bring  all  ages  and  all  lands 
Within  the  stretching  of  my  hands. 

I'll  have  a  garden  filled  with  phlox, 

Delicate,  pale  hollyhocks, 

Lavender  and  five  o'clocks ; 

Each  old-fashioned  flower  that  grows, 

Berry  bushes  set  in  rows, 

And  every  lilac  bloom  that  blows. 

O  little  heaven  of  heart's  delight ! 
Here  would  I  meet  the  enfolding  night, 
Wishing  for  no  eternal  bliss 
More  than  such  homespun  heaven  as  this ! 


Once  Came  a  Flame 

My  heart  is  saddened  with  dream, 
And  mine  eyes  with  the  beauty  of  May, 
When  the  dawns  under  white  boughs  gleam, 
And  the  dusk  empurples  the  bay. 

The  marsh-grass  breaks  into  flame 
At  the  passionate  feet  of  Spring ; 
Only  the  heart  is  tame 
With  long  remembering. 

Once  came  a  flame  and  a  splendor 
With  silver  swiftness  of  light, 
More  than  the  moon  can  render, 
More  than  the  stars  by  night. 

Once  was  the  vision  given 
More  transforming  than  death, 
And  the  ancient  heavens  were  riven, 
And  new  stars  shone — for  a  breath — 

But  the  sunlight  pales  on  the  earth, 
And  a  shadow  sleeps  on  the  sea ; 
The  frail  hours  come  to  birth 
Untouched  of  minstrelsy. 


Love  past  can  not  rise  with  a  dream, 

Nor  youth  be  reborn  with  the  May. 

Can  a  thought  rekindle  the  first  star's  gleam, 

Or  the  rose-dawn  of  day  ? 


On  the  breakwater 

Here  the  long  road  hath  ending  ;  here  at  last 

The  white  dunes  cease,  and  the  gray  rocks  are  massed 

Against  the  tearing  fingers  of  the  sea. 

Southward  the  moors  are  sweet  with  bayberry 

And  all  the  shining  stretches  of  the  bay 

Glow  with  gold  fire,  or  darken  with  the  gray 

Of  gliding  shadows  quenching  the  bright  flame 

In  tall  marsh-grass  that  whispereth  thy  name. 

All  loveliness  hath  ending  —  O  my  dear, 

It  f  alleth  in  a  day  or  in  a  year  ; 

After  the  sunrise  cometh  noon  —  and  night, 

And  darkness  runneth  on  the  heels  of  light. 

This  is  of  love  the  bitter,  tragic  doom  — 

To  cease  to  be  —  to  vanish  from  the  room 

That  once  was  bright  with  laughter  and  with  Spring. 

New  life  shall  be  —  new  love  have  blossoming 

Under  the  pale,  rose  skies  of  breaking  day, 

Under  the  scented  branches  of  the  May; 

But  never  twice  the  miracle  of  dawn, 

Or  love's  feet  flashing  on  the  dewy  lawn. 

Ah,  my  beloved,  let  me  feel  thee  near. 

Seaward  the  channel  lights  are  burning  clear, 

And  silver  starlight  kindles  in  the  dark. 

Time  hath  not  slain  the  wonder  of  the  lark 

That  sang  love's  dawn,  nor  dimmed  the  sunny  ways 


IS* 


Bright  happiness  hath  overflowed  our  days. 
The  plunging  organ-surges  of  the  sea 
Throb  with  a  fuller,  deeper  melody ; 
And  all  the  glowing  spaces  of  the  hill 
In  Autumn's  burnished  hues  are  lovely  still. 

Though  loveliness  hath  ending  in  a  sleep, 
The  soul  of  all  things  fair  doth  vigil  keep 
Within  the  heart,  where  the  slow,  kindly  years 
Are  garnered  up  beyond  the  touch  of  tears. 

Once  from  the  cup  of  Spring  Love  poured  to  me 
The  wine  of  all  time  past,  all  time  to  be. 


Memory 

I  swore  that  all  the  beauty  of  thine  eyes 
Should  be  a  dream  forgotten ;  nevermore 
Thy  presence  near,  thy  hand  upon  the  door 
To  shake  me  with  remembered  agonies. 

And  so  I  dreamed  that  all  old  things  were  slain  .  . 
Then  some  still  night  of  stars,  a  breath  of  Spring, 
A  fallen  rose  leaf,  bluebirds  on  the  wing  .  .  . 
And  all  the  dead  past  kindles  into  pain. 


Sweeter,  Fairer  than  all  These 

When  the  long  sweep  of  drifted  snow 

On  fields  where  now  the  grasses  glow 

With  golden  fire  shall  write  the  token 

That  summer's  scented  wand  is  broken ; 

When  on  the  hearth  the  ashes  pale, 

And  windows  rattle  in  the  gale 

Of  driving  sleet ;  when  doors  are  barred 

Against  the  cold  that  freezes  hard 

On  creaking  trees,  whose  boughs  forget 

The  Spring  when  April  dews  were  wet ; 

When  the  still  shadows  gather  round, 

And  in  the  darkening  room  no  sound, 

Either  to  comfort  or  to  mock, 

Save  the  slow  ticking  of  the  clock ; 

Then,  of  the  memories  that  throng 

Of  happiness  remembered  long, 

I  wonder  which  would  shine  most  bright 

In  the  watches  of  the  night, 

When  the  silent  hours  at  last 

Recall  the  record  of  the  past ! 


I  think  the  sweetest  sound  would  be 
The  fugitive,  faint  melody 
Of  beauty's  song;  the  fairest  sight 
The  magic  gleam  of  beauty's  light ; 
The  memory  of  loveliness 
That  doth  encompass  earth  and  bless. 
The  dawn  light  on  midsummer  morn, 
The  wind's  frail  fingers  in  the  corn ; 
White  houses  seen  through  orchard  trees, 
And  mimic  villages  of  bees  ; 
The  white  surf  like  a  silver  band 
To  bind  the  blue  sea  to  the  land ; 
Meadows  gay  with  golden  rod, 
Ragged  sailor,  milkweed  pod 
Ripe  with  spun-silk,  creamy  down 
To  weave  elf's  cap,  or  fairy's  gown. 

Sound  of  quail  in  meadows  calling ; 
Sound  of  hidden  waters  falling 
From  a  tumbling  mountain  stream 
To  silent,  secret  pools  where  gleam 
The  deep,  still  shadows  of  the  trout. 
On  green,  cool  wood  roads  winding  out 
Through  forest  aisles,  the  busy  tap 
Of  woodpecker  with  fiery  cap, 
On  some  lightning-blasted  tree 
Engaging  his  shrewd  husbandry. 


But  sweeter,  fairer  than  all  these 
Children's  laughter  on  the  breeze, 
Eager  voices,  busy  hands, 
White  feet  flashing  on  the  sands, 
Gold  hair  burning  in  the  sun, 
Till  the  flying  day  be  done. 
Sweeter,  fairer  than  all  these 
The  thousand  homespun  memories 
That  sunny  hours  of  friendship  give 
With  men  who  make  life  great  to  live ; 
All  the  natural,  kindly  ties 
That  bind  men's  hearts  under  the  skies, 
Making  life  higher  than  the  stars, 
And  wider  than  all  prison  bars. 

O  loveliness,  by  love  set  free 
From  touch  of  pale  mortality, 
Be  with  us  still  where  shadows  throng 
In  some  last  strain  of  deathless  song, 
Some  glory  of  remembered  light, 
To  bring  us  beauty  in  the  night. 


•»  20  «• 


O  Never  Spring  Returns 

O  never  Spring  returns 
Beside  the  hill, 
Or  hawthorn  blossom  burns, 
But  there  is  still 

Breath  of  a  vanished  May 
On  bud  and  flower, 
Light  of  a  vanished  day 
In  every  hour ; 

When  from  the  flowering  dust 
Love's  songs  were  made, 
And  one  swift,  piercing  thrust 
Of  beauty's  blade 

Opened  the  wound  unhealing 
Until  death, 

That  aches  with  Spring's  revealing, 
And  the  breath 

Of  loveliness  that  passes 
Frail  and  fleet, 
Bending  the  summer  grasses 
With  unseen  feet. 


The  Shining  Dark 

Hark !  From  his  shadowy  station  on  the  hill 
Waileth  the  unforgiving  whip-poor-will, 
Unto  the  stars  appealing  once  again 
With  dazed  reiteration  of  old  pain ; 
The  still,  soft-stealing  night  winds  touch  and  stir 
The  slumbering  branches  of  the  scented  fir, 
And  the  high  stars  with  silver  fingers  mark 
The  earth  with  beauty  dreaming  in  the  dark. 

O  Love !  this  very  starlight  is  a  dream 

Of  fires  extinct,  and  darkened  orbs  whence  stream 

Long  memories  of  light ;  all  time  is  one, 

And  all  that  hath  been  is,  under  the  sun ; 

Nor  light  is  cleft  from  dark,  nor  dark  from  light, 

But  both  are  beauty  clothing  day  and  night ; 

And  no  man  knoweth  joy  and  grief  apart, 

But  only  love  that  kindleth  in  the  heart. 

End  and  beginning,  hope  and  memory, 

Pain  that  is  song,  grief  that  is  melody, 

Death  that  is  life,  and  life  that  knows  no  name  .  . 

All  these  shall  still  be  one  thing  and  the  same ; 

Yea  !  in  the  night  between  the  worlds  a  spark 

Shall  kindle  beauty  in  the  shining  dark. 


Spring  in  Provincetown 

Beauty  hath  made  this  land  her  own ; 
On  sand  and  sea,  on  lichened  stone, 
Her  mark  is  set — a  long  caress 
Of  dreaming  light,  a  loveliness 
Of  form  and  hue,  a  witchery 
That  haunts  the  margins  of  the  sea. 
Pale  gold  of  dawn  on  crumbling  slips 
Where  drowse  the  fettered,  restless  ships ; 
White  glare  of  blazing,  cloudless  noons 
On  the  hot  stillness  of  the  dunes ; 
Upon  the  bar  'round  bleaching  hulls 
A  ceaseless  crying  of  the  gulls. 

Child,  child,  so  gay,  so  sure, 

Trusting  morning  to  endure ; 

While  the  golden  hours  run 

Finding  love  and  beauty  one ! 

When  love  and  loveliness  are  blended 

What  shall  be  when  love  is  ended  ? 

When  the  words  of  love  are  spoken, 

When  the  ivory  walls  are  broken, 

What  remains'? — My  dear,  my  dear, 

It  will  still  be  lovely  here. 

Still  shall  Autumn  woods  be  gay, 

And  apple  boughs  grow  white  in  May ; 

Still  shall  crooked  streets  run  down 

To  make  a  crooked,  white-walled  town ; 


Sea  winds  still  shall  bring  the  scents 

Of  far,  remembered  continents. 

It  will  still  be  lovely  here  .  . . 

May  you  never  know,  my  dear, 

When  youth  and  love  have  ceased  to  be, 

Beauty's  bitter  mockery ! 


The  Marsh 

In  the  dim  gray  marshes  the  white  winds  stir 
Down  tangled  sedge-aisles,  green  and  still ; 
And  the  air  is  jewelled  with  flash  and  whir 
Of  wild  wings  waking  and  hearts  athrill. 

The  slow  tides  turn  with  the  turning  hour, 
An  endless  pulsing  of  changeless  sea ; 
Billowing  marsh  waves  foam  in  flower, 
With  reed  notes  mocking  the  waves  that  flee. 

The  sea  winds  murmur  of  dim  tomorrows, 
Joys  of  the  brown  earth,  grief  of  the  wave ; 
Tongueless  wailing  of  old  sea-sorrows 
In  the  gray  marsh  whispering  finds  a  grave. 

Shadows  lengthen,  and  dusk  returning 
Snares  in  the  marsh  reeds  blossoming 
Far  sea-dreams  in  the  sunset  burning, 
Shadow-visions  and  starlight  yearning, 
Sleepy  twitter  and  muffled  wing. 


Beach  Sand 

Up  the  scented  hill-slope  Spring, 
With  feet  of  flame,  comes  hastening, 
And  from  his  topmost,  leafy  spray 
I  heard  the  cardinal  today. 

Apple  boughs  are  blowing  white 

And  hawthorn  scents  the  moonlit  night ; 

All  the  green  wood  on  the  hill 

Beauty  fashions  to  her  will  . .  . 

But  my  heart  will  not  be  still, 

Singing  of  the  white  beach  sand 

At  the  far  edge  of  the  land 

Where  the  wind  blows  sharp  and  salt, 

And  Spring's  white,  fragrant  armies  halt. 

At  the  fish-shed  pilings  rapping 

All  day  long  the  waves  are  slapping ; 

All  day  long  the  gulls  are  crying 

Where  the  fishing  boats  are  lying 

Drifting  with  the  lazy  swell 

That  swings  the  deep-voiced  channel  bell. 

Hawthorn  buds  are  fair  at  noon 
And  apple  boughs  against  the  moon ; 
Dogwood,  violets,  and  clover, 
These  are  charms  to  charm  a  rover ; 
Thrush  and  robin  pour  again 


Silver  notes  like  silver  rain ; 
All  the  green  wood  on  the  hill 
Beauty  fashions  to  her  will  . .  . 
But  my  heart  will  not  be  still. 

Where  the  marsh-grass  meets  the  sea, 
That  is  where  my  heart  would  be ; 
Where  the  tall,  white  ships  go  by 
Underneath  an  azure  sky. 


Ragged  Sailors 

Around  the  lighthouse,  white  and  tall, 
Bright  blue  against  the  rain-washed  wall 
Grow  clumps  of  ragged  sailors  massed 
Like  weary  hearts  that  here  at  last 
Have  found  a  peace,  where  flaming  sun 
With  shining,  golden  feet  doth  run 
Upon  the  sea,  and  climbing  moon 
Nightly  silvers  hill  and  dune. 

O  laughing  bloom !  if  it  may  be 
That  death  doth  mould  life  secretly 
Unto  new  life — a  flower,  a  flame, 
A  dream  of  life  without  a  name  .  . . 
Were  it  not  peace  for  sea-spent  men, 
Wave-tossed,  wind-driven,  to  know  again 
The  light  in  quiet,  sunny  places 
Untroubled  by  the  windy  spaces 
Of  running  sea,  and  flying  foam ; 
Firm-rooted  in  the  still,  dark  loam 
Were  it  not  peace  to  know  at  night 
The  steady  shining  of  the  light, 
To  feel  beside  the  lighthouse  wall 
No  fear  of  any  wind  at  all  *? 


Soon  Cometh  May 

Soon  cometh  May, 
And  soon — O  soon — 
Wild  plum  blossoms 
Under  the  moon. 

Far— O  far— 

In  the  blossoming  night 

Faint  minstrelsy 

Of  all  delight, 

Touching  the  heart 
With  flame,  with  song, 
When  hours  are  fleet, 
And  dreams  are  long. 

Beauty  returneth 
Upon  the  earth, 
A  flaming,  rain-sweet, 
Rose-white  birth. 

Beauty  returneth 
Veiled  in  light, 
A  silver  flame 
In  the  silver  night. 


Beauty  returneth, 
Runneth  fleet ; 
Her  sandals  fail  not 
From  her  feet. 

Soon  cometh  May, 
And  soon — O  soon— 
Wild  plum  blossoms 
Under  the  moon. 


•£30  <v 


A  Gray  Day 

Easterly  winds  and  driving  rain 
Are  blurring  every  window  pane 
With  crystal  dots,  and  silver  threads 
That  slip  and  slide  across  the  glass 
Like  silver  serpents  in  the  grass. 

Under  gray  skies  in  wind-whipped  beds 

The  tiger-lilies,  tall  and  frail, 

Turn  their  backs  upon  a  gale 

Of  scudding  cloud,  and  racing  sea, 

And  wind  that  runneth  restlessly. 

Ah !  love,  hath  all  the  former  day 
Of  golden  glory  passed  away  ? 
Of  Spring  across  the  meadows  calling, 
Of  moonlight  on  the  orchards  falling, 
Of  rose-white  blossoms  on  the  bough  *? 

Though  the  gray  rain  is  blowing  now 
Upon  the  hill,  and  great  gusts  sweep 
The  fields  where  meadow  grass  grew  deep, 
Though  the  wind  waileth  ceaselessly, 
That  which  hath  been  still  shall  be ; 
All  that  hath  lived  liveth  ever ; 
All  that  hath  loved  dieth  never, 
If  once  youth  flamed  with  magic  light, 
If  once  the  green  boughs  burned  to  white ! 

#31* 


O  light  that  f  adeth  not  again ! 
O  white  boughs  shining  through  the  rain ! 
O  beautiful  the  blossoms  round  our  feet, 
Where  love  was  young,  and  beauty  once 
was  sweet ! 


In  the  Mist 

Mist  and  the  voice  of  a  bell, 

As  the  slow  tides  flow ; 

And  the  shadowy,  blundering,  fog-bound 

ships  of  the  sea 
Grope  to  and  fro. 

Faint  hum  of  sailors,  and  laughter, 

Tiny  port-holes  a-light ; 

Then — fog-strangled  churning  of  engines, 

hoarse  growl  of  a  horn, 
Recede  in  the  night. 

In  dream-light  of  visions  returning 

Years  storm-darkened  gleam ; 

And  sudden  winds  singing  one  word — one 

word  I  would  say 
Ere  you  vanish  in  dream. 

One  golden-winged,  jewel-wrought  word! 
Would  life's  gates  spring  apart?  .  .  . 
Only  the  mist  and  the  slow-swinging, 

bronze-throated  bell  .  .  . 
Dumb  lips,  dead  heart. 


Love  Walked  with  Me 

Many  an  hour  of  many  a  day 
I  walked  alone  a  winding  way 
Through  fields  of  clover,  up  the  hill, 
Where  pines  croon  low,  and  waters  spill 
From  rock  to  rock,  from  pool  to  pool 
Moss-edged  with  velvet  crisp  and  cool. 

Many  an  hour,  by  many  a  way, 

I  watched  the  pageant  of  the  day ; 

Saw  beauty  veil  in  golden  mist 

The  willow  boughs  that  Spring  had  kissed ; 

Heard  beauty  run  in  golden  notes 

That  filled  the  air  like  dancing  motes ; 

Found  beauty's  footprint,  found  her  trace, 

But  never  met  her  in  her  grace, 

Although  the  heart  stood  still  to  hear 

The  rustle  of  her  presence  near 

Stealing  from  her  worshippers, 

Stirring  as  the  tall  grass  stirs, 

Or  creeping  through  the  scented  clover 

At  hide-and-seek  with  those  that  love  her. 


On  a  new  hour  of  a  new  day 
Love  walked  with  me  that  leafy  way, 
And  life  found  fragrance  and  heart's  ease 
Amid  the  quietness  of  trees. 
Yea !  all  the  hours  of  all  the  day 
Love  touched  the  known,  familiar  way 
With  magic  from  the  heart  of  May.  .  . 
Then  in  each  secret,  shadowy  place 
Mine  eyes  saw  beauty  face  to  face. 


And  Then  Came  Spring 

The  wild  rose  blossoms  on  the  hill, 
The  red  rose  by  the  door ; 
The  little  wren  hath  built  again 
Just  as  before. 

There's  bloom  upon  the  apple  boughs, 
And  flash  of  bluebird's  wing  .  .  . 
But  who  shall  come  to  sing  the  song 
You  used  to  sing  *? 


O  Where  Doth  Beauty  Dwell 

O  where  doth  beauty  dwell, 
Ye  who  pursue  her  *? 
What  hour  doth  strike  her  knell, 
All  ye  that  rue  her  ? 

Who  knoweth  loveliness 
In  common  things, 
All  homely  joys  that  bless, 
Needeth  no  wings 

To  climb  the  steep,  blue  sky, 
Or  search  the  earth ; 
In  every  kindly  tie, 
And  natural  birth, 

Is  beauty  lodged.  O  sweet 
The  sun  and  rain ; 
Toil  and  black  bread  and  meat, 
And  toil  again ; 

Roof-tree  and  bright  hearth-stone, 
Clear,  running  spring ; 
Harvest  of  seed  sown 
And  blossoming ; 


Slow  words  of  simple  truth, 
Deeds  of  high  end ; 
The  laughing  faith  of  youth ; 
Handclasp  of  friend ; 

The  warm  soil's  sunny  mirth, 
The  moonlight's  spell ; 
In  these  hath  beauty  birth, 
Doth  beauty  dwell. 

O  not  on  honey-dew 
Is  beauty  fed ; 
She  doth  her  life  renew 
With  wine  and  bread. 

She  stands  where  thou  dost  stand, 
Is  where  thou  art; 
Nearer  than  foot  or  hand, 
Near  as  the  heart. 


The  Turning  Tide 

Slack  water,  and  a  night  bereft  of  stars  ; 
A  bitter  wind  blows  in  from  out  the  dark, 
And  I  go  seaward  with  the  turning  tide. 

The  yellow  lights  that  blink  across  the  night, 
The  fragrance  of  salt  marsh,  the  incessant  whisper 
Of  waves  upon  the  rocks — these  things  have  been 
Blood  of  my  blood,  bone  of  my  bone  since  birth. 

The  dear  loved  faces  that  have  filled  my  years, 
The  voices  I  would  know  across  the  world, 
These  will  remain,  and  one  by  one  be  numbered 
With  those  that  vanish  from  the  kindly  shore. 

New  lands,  new  faces,  yea !  it  may  be — peace ; 
But  never  again  the  old  familiar  greeting, 
The  homely  word,  the  honest  smile  that  lights 
The  worn  and  furrowed  face  with  holiness. 

Day  after  day  sails  vanish  into  silence, 
And  we  who  linger,  wonder  and  are  still. 

Then  in  the  night  the  call,  insistent,  low, 
Offering  the  heart  nor  joy  nor  grief, 
But  keen-edged  as  a  sword  that  shears  away 
The  treasure  of  the  dear  remembered  years. 


The  rhythmic  slap  of  halyards  on  the  mast 
Sounds  from  the  darkness,  straining  anchor  chains 
Speak  of  the  currents  setting  to  the  sea, 
And  I  go  seaward  with  the  turning  tide. 

Before — the  unknown  silent  years.  Behind  .  .  . 
Inviolable  and  crowned  with  morning  light, 
The  secret,  dreaming  fairylands  of  Dawn. 


You  Who  Once  Walked  beside  Me 

Where  have  you  strayed,  my  son  *?  To  what  far  dwelling, 
You  who  once  walked  beside  me — arm  in  my  arm? 
You  from  whose  boyish  heart  laughter  was  ever  welling, 
Where  have  you  found  a  haven — beyond  all  harm? 

Where  are  the  magic  roads  we  tramped  together, 
Sunlit  valley  and  hill,  and  the  white  ways  of  the  plain  *? 
Where  are  the  dreams  we  dreamed  in  the  rain-sweet  April 

weather  *? 
All  these  are  gone — returning  never  again. 

Never  again  the  voice  of  your  eager  calling ; 
Never  again  the  touch  of  your  hand  on  my  arm ! 
And  I  face  the  empty  years  knowing  Time's  slow  sands 

falling 
Hold  now  for  you — for  me — no  more  of  harm. 


There  is  a  Secret  Music 

There  is  a  secret  music  haunts  the  hours 

Within  my  garden  wall, 

Where  many  a  bird  long  vanished  from  her  bowers. 

Repeats  her  olden  call. 

And  round  the  wind-blown  nests  of  vanished  Springs, 

Empty  of  joy  or  strife, 

Still  haunts  a  glory  of  soft,  brooding  wings, 

Still  clings  a  dream  of  life. 

The  grassy  walks  are  gay  with  petals  flying 
From  laughing  winds  at  play ; 
And  yet  I  know  not  if  they've  long  been  lying, 
Or  if  they  fell  today. 

For  Time  has  lost  his  witchery  and  wonder ; 
Yea !  while  my  garden  grows 
Shall  never  more  resolve  the  years  asunder  .  .  . 
Enchanted  by  a  rose. 


The  Enchanted  Wood 

Out  of  the  dark  I  have  heard  you  calling, 

Spirit  of  wind  and  light ! 

Out  of  the  dusk  and  the  white  dew  falling 

Heard  you  singing  of  joy  divine. 

And  my  heart  has  thrilled  in  the  silent  night, 

And  my  feet  have  sought  you,  Heart  of  Mine, 

In  the  silver  dusk  and  the  white  dew  falling. 

Shimmer  of  moonlight,  glimmer  of  pearl, 
Mist  on  the  air  like  a  filmy  lace ; 
Eddying  wood-wraiths  dance  and  swirl 
Where  dreams  are  born  in  the  forest  cool. 
O  Heart  of  Mine,  I  have  seen  your  face 
In  the  silver  dusk  by  the  shadowy  pool, 
Where  eddying  wood-wraiths  dance  and  swirl. 

Out  of  the  wood  when  shades  are  falling, 

And  flickering  elf-lights  gleam ; 

Out  of  the  dusk  I  hear  you  calling, 

A  fugitive  presence,  a  haunting  song ! 

O,  ever  elusive,  luring  dream ! 

The  heart  is  lonely  and  time  is  long, 

In  the  silver  dusk  and  the  white  dew  falling. 


Beside  the  Hearth 

From  fairyland  she  came  to  me, 
And  dwelt — a  blessed  while ; 
Lo !  All  the  shadows  of  the  room 
Were  lightened  by  her  smile. 

She  took  my  hand  as  one  who  said, 
"If  thou  can'st  not  be  free, 
I  know  no  other  freedom  save 
To  dwell  here,  love,  with  thee." 

She  swept  the  room — upon  the  hearth 
She  lit  an  altar  flame ; 
And  peace  abides  within  the  house 
At  the  naming  of  her  name. 

Yet  sometimes  in  the  stillness  here 
I  know  she  hears  again 
The  laughter  of  the  elves  that  dance 
Between  the  drops  of  rain. 

And  while  she  lays  her  hand  in  mine, 
Turning  her  eyes  to  me, 
I  know  she  dreams  of  fairy  ships 
That  sail  a  fairy  sea. 


In  a  Child' s  Garden 

I  could  be  happy  in  remembering 
Her  laughing  eyes,  her  dancing  feet, 
Her  voice  that  sings  in  every  wind  of  Spring 
A  music  elfin-sweet. 

I  could  be  happy  but  to  see  in  dream 
Her  flower-face,  her  flying  hair, 
To  know  again  the  vision-worlds  that  gleam 
In  soft  enchantment  there. 


Love  Took  the  Swiftness  of  Wind 

Love  took  the  swiftness  of  wind, 
And  fragrance  of  wood  flowers, 

Laughter  of  silver  stars, 
Silence  of  summer  hours, 

Whiteness  of  new-fallen  snow, 
Sweetness  of  April  rain, 

And  fashioned  them  to  a  child 
Slender  as  waving  grain  .  ,  . 

Who  that  knew  her  laughter, 
And  her  flying  feet, 

Would  think  of  blowing  wind  as  swift 
Or  April  rain  as  sweet  ? 


The  Wish  I  Wish  Tonight 

Starlight,  star  bright, 
Fairest  star  I've  seen  tonight, 
For  little  hearts  you  light  to  bed, 
Lagging  foot  and  nodding  head, 
For  sleepy  eyes  that  smile  to  see 
Your  taper  shine  so  cheerily, 
Starlight,  star  bright, 
This  is  the  wish  I  wish  tonight : 

Beauty  to  shine  on  seeing  eyes  ! 

Beauty  to  mould  the  heart ! — O  wise 

Who  follow  beauty  far  and  far 

By  glowing  sun  and  shining  star, 

Beyond  all  that  the  heart  has  known 

Here  where  our  lives  are  thrown ; 

Or  whether  on  familiar  land 

Where  year  by  year  salt  winds  have  blown 

The  wild  plum  blossoms  on  the  sand, 

In  grass-grown  paths  and  simple  ways 

Come  golden  days. 

Far  or  near,  come  weal  or  woe, 

Summer  sun  and  winter  snow, 

Out  of  the  mire,  out  of  the  dust, 

Beauty's  climbing  tendrils  thrust 

Upward  to  eternal  light, 

A  dream,  a  sorcery,  by  night, 


-»  49  •& 


A  glory  in  the  flowering  grass, 

A  singing  in  the  wind  that  shall  not  pass, 

Until  the  heart  is  still 

Under  the  wind-blown  grasses  on  the  hill. 

That  love  may  be  as  sandals  to  swift  feet, 
For  surely  love  is  venturesome  and  fleet ; 
Love  is  a  flame,  love  is  a  light, 
Love  is  a  singing  in  the  night ; 
Love  is  a  vision  and  a  dream, 
Love  only  is,  where  all  things  seem. 

Starlight,  star  bright, 

Ray  of  blue,  and  ray  of  white, 

This  is  the  wish  I  wish  tonight. 


/  Hung  the  Walls  with  Holly  Boughs 

I  lit  the  laughing  candle  lights 
Upon  your  Christmas  tree ; 
I  hung  the  walls  with  holly  boughs 
In  joy  of  thee. 

Now  only  in  a  lonely  heart 

Your  Christmas  candles  glow ; 

And  the  holly  boughs  lie  spread — lie  spread — 

Under  the  snow. 


The  Oracle 

O  heart !  Is  not  my  palace  fair 
As  eye  may  know  *? 

Nay/  Children's  blocks  have  built  as  rare 
Long  years  ago. 

O  heart !  Have  not  my  battles  sought 
Life's  golden  store  *? 

Nay!  Leaden  soldiers  oft  have  fought 
A  nobler  war. 

O  heart !  Are  not  my  days  well  sped  ? 
No  hour  brings  tears. 

Dost  thou  not  know  that  thou  art  dead 
These  many  years? 


Departure 

I  knew  it  would  be  bitter  at  the  end 

To  say  farewell ; 

To  take  the  gray  road  winding,  pass  the  bend, 

So  passing  from  the  fields  I  loved  so  well. 

I  knew  it  would  be  hard  to  turn  the  key 
Upon  the  past ; 

The  plan  of  life  we  wrought  so  patiently, 
The  secret  things  we  cherished  to  the  last. 

And  yet  I  knew  not  how  that  earth  had  grown 
Of  me  a  part ; 

How  with  its  living  seeds  my  life  was  sown, 
And  all  its  roses  rooted  in  my  heart. 

I  did  not  know  the  years  had  treasured  up 
A  robin's  song ; 

I  did  not  dream  one  sip  from  one  rose-cup 
Had  worked  enchantment  for  a  whole  life  long. 


I  Shall  Return 

I  shall  return 

At  evening  with  the  falling  of  the  dew, 

Through  the  gray  dusk  of  some  still  night  in  May ; 

Needing  no  words  at  last  to  say  to  you 

The  thousand  things  that  once  I  could  not  say. 

I  shall  return 

With  the  night  wind  that  stirs  your  quiet  room, 
Or  some  shy  fragrance  drifting  up  the  glen 
Like  kisses  blown  from  apple  boughs  in  bloom ; 
And  you  shall  know  how  much  I  loved  you — then. 


Orchard  Trees 

Plucked  harp  or  lute  strings  wake 
No  melodies 

Sweet  as  the  wind  doth  shake 
From  orchard  trees ; 

Fine  nets  of  silver  spun 
Gleam  not  so  fair 
As  silver  buds  upon 
The  evening  air. 

A  dreamer,  slow  of  speech, 
And  rough  of  hand, 
Once  scanned  this  pleasant  reach 
Of  smiling  land, 

Choosing  the  sunlit  hill, 
Long  years  ago, 
For  flowering  trees  that  fill 
The  orchard  row. 

He  watched  the  young  green  turning 
To  creamy  white ; 

He  loved  the  young  boughs  burning 
With  rosy  light. 


He  heard  when  winds  awoke 
Their  symphony, 
Faint  song  or  surge  that  broke 
Like  breaking  sea. 

He  saw  when  redbird's  coat 
Or  bluebird's  wing 
Flamed  like  a  colored  note 
From  green  lute  string. 

Stoop-shouldered,  silent,  slow, 
Loving  the  sod, 
Did  he  not  say,  "I  know 
Not  even  God 

Could  make  a  sweeter  thing 
Under  the  sun 

Than  white  boughs  May  winds  sing 
Their  songs  upon ; 

Could  grant  a  fairer  boon 
Between  the  seas 
Than  silver  from  the  moon 
On  orchard  trees." 


When  Spring  Ran  Laughing  Down 
the  Hill  ' 

When  Spring  ran  laughing  down  the  hill, 
And  sang  in  every  hawthorn  hedge, 
I  rose  with  all  my  heart  a-thrill 
And  followed  her  by  reed  and  sedge. 

I  heard  her  song  ring  sweet  and  clear 
Through  all  the  green  world,  far  and  wide  .  .  . 
Then  came  I  where  you  once  were  dear, 
And  all  Spring's  music  broke  and  died. 


The  End  of  the  Day 

Sitting  with  folded  hands, 

With  weary  eyes  and  dim, 

She  sees  the  glow  on  the  western  sands, 

The  sun  on  the  ocean's  rim. 

And  her  heart  turns  back  to  the  nights 

Of  song  and  roses  and  love, 

When  life  was  sweet  in  the  diamond-lights 

Of  myriad  stars  above. 

She  hears  the  wind  in  the  trees, 

The  summer  rain  on  the  grass, 

The  prattle  of  children  about  her  knees  ; 

Soft  shadows  come  and  pass 

And  cluster  about  her  chair, 

And  fairy  fingers  blow 

Kisses  sweet  as  April  air, 

From  lips  of  long  ago. 

Sorrow  and  pain  are  past, 

Passion  and  longing  are  dead ; 

Evening  shadows  are  falling  fast 

About  her  drooping  head. 

Sitting  with  folded  hands, 

With  weary  eyes  and  dim, 

She  sees  the  glow  on  the  western  sands, 

The  sun  on  the  ocean's  rim. 


Brothers  of  the  Wind 

Do  ye  not  hear  the  voices  of  your  kin^ 
Straying  brothers  of  the  wind  and  rain? 

Ye  dream  of  life  with  dumb,  unshaken  hearts, 
And  brooding  eyes  that  watch  the  slow  hearth-flames 
Flaring  in  green  and  mauve  and  golden  light  .  .  . 
Wind-harried  driftwood  melting  in  one  gleam 
Of  blue,  Homeric  seas  and  jewelled  sand. 

Your  lotus-bonded  souls  that  sang  at  dawn, 
Hearing  the  call  of  winds  that  range  the  world, 
Forget  old  kinship  with  the  wings  that  cleave, 
The  hearts  that  search  the  borderlands  of  life. 

Behold  !  The  ancient  vision  and  the  dream, 
Chant  of  the  gray  wave,  voice  of  the  dim,  white  rain, 
And  all  the  quickening  gospels  of  the  wind, 
Grow  alien  to  your  altars  and  your  creeds. 

Coiners  of  sunlight !  Gatherers  of  dew ! 
Pan  pipes  unheeded  in  the  river  reeds ; 
The  kindly  prophecies  of  the  green  earth 
Die  in  your  hearts  as  empty  oracles. 


O  straying  brothers  of  the  wind  and  rain ! 
Your  lodge  of  old  was  roofed  with  friendly  stars. 
The  wild  air  blossomed  with  your  brushwood  fires ; 
Your  sons  were  bred  amid  green  silences. 

Ye  were  the  red  earth's  children,  blood  and  bone ! 
Dim  memories  of  forest  centuries 
Unlocked  the  secret  of  the  snapping  twig, 
Swift  rustling  leaves,  splash  in  the  dark  pool, 
And  the  unanswered  yearning  of  the  wind. 

Horizon-breakers  in  the  ancient  dawn, 
Cleaving  the  sea-line,  piercing  the  yellow  fog ! 
Have  ye  forgot  the  hulls  that  foamed,  the  sails 
That  flamed  across  the  gray  waves  of  the  world  ? 

Are  there  no  dreams  of  noon-day  left  to  men  ? 
Strike  off  the  bondage  of  your  craven  years. 
Old,  dying  creeds  shall  perish  from  the  earth, 
And  new  horizons  kindle  with  new  light. 

Do  ye  not  hear  the  voices  of  your  kin, 
Straying  brothers  of  the  wind  and  rain? 


They  That  Go  Down  to  the  Sea 

There's  a  smell  of  rotting  leaf-mold,  and  the  winds  of 

Spring  are  blowing, 
There's  a  voice  that  lures  and  whispers  in  the  mad  Spring 

weather, 
As  the  sunlight  on  blue  water  sets  the  gypsy  blood 

a-glowing, 
And  the  sailor's  heart  runs  seaward,  snapping  tie  and 

breaking  tether, 
And  a  thousand  ships  grow  dim  on  the  far  sea-line. 

They  ferret  out  their  cargoes  on  the  other  side  the  world, 
Rose  pearls  and  moonlit  ivory  and  golden  crocks, 
Before  the  trade  winds  scudding,  in  tempest  thunders 

hurled 
Around  the  world  and  back  again  to  scum-washed  docks. 

They  seek  a  hope  no  heart  can  name  where  long  waves 

whiten, 

A  dream  the  wind  has  moulded  out  of  flying  foam ; 
From  burning  east  to  burning  west  the  gray  waves  lighten, 
And  driving  to  the  flying  sea-line  white  sails  roam. 


For  the  sea  with  flowing  magic  fills  the  hearts  of  men  with 

vision ; 
They  are  hers  in  bone  and  sinew,  and  her  love  is  in  their 

eyes; 
Though  she  smite  them  with  disaster,  though  she  slay  them 

in  derision, 
They  will  hear  her  call  and  follow  till  the  last  breath  dies. 

They  will  hear  her  voice  and  seek  her  down  the  pathways 

of  the  mist, 
And  nose  their  way  around  the  world  till  swinging  tides 

shall  cease ; 
They  shall  gaze  without  misgiving  on  the  lips  her  lips 

have  kissed 
As  they  sink  through  swirling  waters  where  green  silence 

offers  peace. 

When  breaking  ice  goes  seaward  and  the  winds  of  Spring 

are  blowing, 
When  a  thousand  voices  whisper  in  the  mad  Spring 

weather, 
When  sunlight  on  blue  water  sets  the  gypsy  blood 

a-glowing, 
Then  the  sailor's  heart  runs  seaward,  snapping  tie  and 

breaking  tether, 
And  a  thousand  ships  grow  dim  on  the  far  sea-line. 


Death  in  the  Reeds 

No  more  the  sunlight  quivers  in  my  veins, 
With  sudden,  piercing  ecstacy  of  life ; 
Night-shadows  deepen  in  my  withered  leaves ; 
Was  it  not  yesterday  that  I  was  young  *? 

When  Spring  was  kindling  on  the  barren  hills, 
And  naked  marshland  trembled  into  flame, 
Blade  upon  blade  I  woke  unto  the  sun, 
And  the  long,  fragrant  kiss  of  the  white  wind. 

Upon  my  face  I  caught  the  golden  fire, 
From  leaf  to  leaf  it  thrilled  upon  my  heart, 
And  all  the  brown  earth  melted  into  light ; 
Was  it  not  yesterday  that  I  was  young? 

The  swaying  reeds,  marsh-brothers,  marsh-beloved, 
Bowed  down  their  heads  before  me  in  the  dawn ; 
The  Spring's  green  passion  burned  from  stalk  to  stalk, 
And  life's  wild  magic  throbbed  within  the  root. 

Around  my  feet  the  waters  laughed  and  whispered, 
Telling  me  secrets  of  the  old,  rough  earth. 

No  more  the  heart  flames  upward  to  the  sun ; 
Night-shadows  deepen  in  my  withered  leaves. 
Surely  I  have  but  dreamed  of  life  and  light ! 
Or  was  it  yesterday  that  I  was  young  *? 


The  Ship  of  Dreams 

On  the  silver  trail  there's  a  sail  tonight, 
And  a  ship  stands  in  from  the  far  sea-line ; 
A  shape  that  never  is  seen  by  day, 
In  mist  enshrouded  and  veiled  in  spray, 
Bearing  no  store  of  mart  or  mine. 

Out  of  the  haven  of  heart's  desire 
Many  a  year  she's  overdue ; 
Dreams  forgotten  and  visions  old, 
Magic  skies,  and  fairy  gold  .  .  . 
These  are  the  wares  she  brings  to  you. 

Spoil  of  the  lands  of  long  ago, 

Treasure  of  years  when  the  heart  was  young ; 

Light  of  unlived  splendid  days, 

Laurel  crown,  and  whispered  praise  .  .  . 

The  blow  unstruck  and  the  song  unsung. 

You  never  shall  hear  her  anchor  chains, 
Nor  ever  the  sound  of  her  flapping  sail ; 
Yet  eyes  that  are  weary  and  old  and  dim 
Have  seen  her  far  on  the  ocean's  rim 
Sailing  across  the  silver  trail. 


Night-Jewels 

Window  by  window,  more  and  more, 

Gleam  the  evening  lights  on  the  curving  shore, 

A  chain  of  topaz  blazing  white 

On  the  throbbing  bosom  of  the  night. 

A  glint  of  ruby,  an  emerald  spark, 
From  a  drifting  ship  in  the  velvet  dark, 
Rise  and  fall  with  the  long  wave's  crest 
As  jewels  stir  on  a  woman's  breast. 


•£65  «• 


The  Quest 

The  shadow  sails  grow  far  and  dim, 
The  shadow  squadrons  melt  away 
Beyond  the  ocean's  silver  rim, 
Beyond  the  gates  of  night  and  day. 

Eyes  of  yearning  that  know  the  vision, 
Hearts  of  hunger  that  seek  the  gleam, 
Stirred  by  whispers  of  lands  Elysian, 
Over  the  sea-line  follow  a  dream. 

Their  dreams  are  woven  of  sun  and  tears ; 
Out  of  the  dusk  the  South  wind  blows 
Faint  music  of  forgotten  years, 
The  haunting  fragrance  of  a  rose. 


Ghost  Ships 

Still  are  the  winds,  my  love,  that  laughed  at  dawn 
Upon  a  sea  of  dreaming  amethyst ; 
And  through  the  velvet  shadows  of  the  dusk 
Night  flashes  golden  fire  from  star  to  star. 

Beneath  the  sleeping  headlands,  far  and  dim, 
Touched  with  the  silence  of  the  centuries, 
The  ghost  ships  of  the  world  drift  with  the  tide, 
One  by  one  out  of  the  twilight  stealing. 

Fleet-oared  triremes  of  Sidon,  and  Grecian  galleys, 
Dim-fabled  argosies  of  silk  and  spice, 
Swift  Viking  sails  of  half-forgotten  years, 
Gray  and  still  they  swing  with  the  weary  tides. 

Love  and  war  and  the  golden  lure  of  the  wind, 
Yearning  and  dim,  sweet  visions  of  foreign  faces, 
Drew  them  into  the  mists  that  blow  around 
The  utmost  borders  of  the  world,  forever. 

Song  of  the  salt,  mad  wind  and  wine  of  the  sea, 
Cry  of  the  gray  wave  calling  out  of  the  night, 
Waken  the  ghosts  of  happy,  vanished  shores, 
Waken  the  murmur  of  old,  dreamlike  voices. 


One  sail  that  lingers  in  forgotten  lands, 
One  face  that  dreams  not  on  the  evening  air ; 
Yet  in  the  broken  music  of  the  wind, 
Blowing  from  out  the  gardens  of  the  dawn 
I  hear  your  silver  laughter,  O  my  love  ! 


Vanished  Sails 

Under  the  golden  harvest  moon 
Silver  sails  on  the  sea,  my  love, 
Creeping  out  on  the  wings  of  night, 
Out  to  the  dawn  and  the  eastern  light  .  .  . 
Silver  sails  on  the  sea,  my  love. 

Under  the  pallid  winter  moon 

No  gleam  of  a  roving  sail,  my  love ; 

The  shores  are  bare,  and  the  seas  are  bleak, 

And  wandering  hearts  are  far  to  seek ; 

No  gleam  of  a  vanished  sail,  my  love. 


•£  69  • 


Beauty  Doth  Ever  Tease 

Beauty  doth  ever  tease 
With  swift  surprises ; 
From  all  who  seek  she  flees 
In  strange  disguises. 

No  heart  may  hold  her  fast, 
Or  hold  her  long ; 
She  slippeth  free  at  last 
With  mocking  song. 

Once  in  the  breathless  game 
She  turned  her  head : 
"Dost  thou  not  know  my  name 
Is  love?"  she  said. 

I  cried:  "At  last— the  truth!" 
She  slipped  behind  me  : 
"Suppose  my  name  were  youth, 
How  would  you  find  me?" 


The  Shores  of  Sleep 

At  last  our  ways  have  found  their  utmost  goal 
On  the  gray  shingle  of  the  unbordered  sea. 

The  shrill,  insistent  voices  of  the  world 
Are  stilled  behind  us  in  a  sudden  hush, 
And  the  harsh  tumult  of  unhallowed  years 
Dies  in  the  swaying  silence  of  the  deep. 

In  the  far  regions  of  the  purple  dusk 
Forgotten  visions  stir,  and,  dimly  known, 
Peace  dreams  in  the  untroubled  ocean  depths, 
Washed  in  the  flowing  silver  of  the  stars. 

So  far,  so  faint,  as  of  a  mightier  ocean 
Beyond  the  shadows  of  the  world,  there  beats 
The  ebb  and  flow  of  time  and  life  and  love 
Down  the  dim  reaches  of  Eternity. 

Sleep  after  weary  toil.  Night  folds  about  us 
The  velvet  mantle  of  her  endless  tides ; 
And  the  low  voices  of  a  holier  dawn 
Blow  from  the  isles  of  slumber  in  the  sea. 


As  I  Went  Down  to  Provincetown 

As  I  went  down  to  Provincetown, 
Under  the  hill 
Frost  was  in  the  marshes, 
And  the  air  was  chill. 

As  I  went  down  to  Provincetown, 
Before  a  crooked  house 
I  saw  an  old  man  sitting 
Still  as  a  mouse. 

Skin  like  russet  apples, 

And  shaking  hands ; 

Eyes  that  searched  for  something 

Beyond  the  sands. 

Low  eaves  green  with  moss, 
And  a  low,  green  door ; 
But  no  voice  within, 
Or  foot  on  the  floor. 

"A  fine,  warm  place 
To  be  sitting  in  the  sun  ! " 
His  eyes  sought  mine 
At  the  word  begun. 


475  «• 


"Aye !  warm  in  the  sun, 
But  the  air  is  chill ; 
The  dark  comes  early  .  .  ." 
The  house  was  still. 

Said  he :  "  It's  quiet  here 
Day  by  day ; 
Never  been  the  same 
Since  the  boys  went  away. 

One  made  money, 
And  the  like  o'  that ; 
Hard  for  him  to  get  away 
From  his  own  door  mat. 

One  went  to  sea ; 
Always  was  a  rover, 
Driving  with  the  wind 
The  whole  world  over. 

But  one  was  close  as  bark  to  me, 
Rain  and  snow ; 

Twenty  year  since  he  was  took  .  . 
Twenty  year  ago  .  .  ." 


Skin  like  russet  apples, 

And  shaking  hands ; 

Eyes  that  searched  for  something 

Beyond  the  sands. 

"A  fine,  warm  sun, 
But  the  air  is  chill ; 
The  dark  comes  early  .  .  . 
And  the  nights  are  still." 


The  Long  Road 

Brother,  what  if  the  road  be  long, 
Out  of  the  gray  town,  over  the  hill ! 
A  gay,  good  heart  and  a  snatch  of  song, 
And  life  laughs  back  as  we  trudge  along. 
What  if  the  inns  be  good  or  bad ! 
Turn  your  face  to  the  wind,  my  lad ; 
Take  the  long  road  with  a  will, 
Out  of  the  gray  town,  over  the  hill ! 

Brother,  what  if  the  day  be  long ! 
Journeys  end,  and  the  stars,  and  the  sun. 
There's  a  dusty  highway  ribboning  free 
Through  a  jewelled  land  to  a  gleaming  sea ; 
Drink  a  health  to  the  hearts  that  roam ! 
Fling  the  cup  at  the  stay-at-home ! 
Then  take  the  road  till  the  day  be  done, 
Till  journeys  end,  and  the  stars,  and  the  sun. 


The  Truant 

O  he  came  back  at  five  o'clock 
Who  should  have  come  at  four, 
With  slow  hand  on  the  turning  lock, 
And  slow  foot  at  the  door. 

Said  he:  "I've  played  the  fool,  I  know." 
Said  he:  "I've  played  the  clown; 
But  O  the  apple  boughs  a-blow 
Beyond  the  edge  of  town ! 

And  though  I  come  at  set  of  sun 
Answering  the  old  call, 
Some  day — some  day  I'll  turn  and  run, 
And  never  come  back  at  all." 


Heart's  Desire 

There  is  a  land  with  sunlight  on  its  rivers, 

There  is  a  realm  with  silver  on  the  sea ; 

In  every  scented,  vagrant  wind  there  quivers 

The  chanting  of  love's  elfin  melody ; 

And  in  her  garden  where  her  hopes  are  springing 

From  every  bud  in  tender,  green  attire, 

Her  still,  sweet  voice  is  never  weary,  singing 

Visions  of  heart's  desire. 

Musing  amid  green  leaves  she  sits  alone, 
With  eyes  wherein  eternity  doth  sleep ; 
And  all  the  fairy  visions  men  have  known, 
All  hopes  they  hold,  all  vigils  that  men  keep, 
She  weaves  with  magic  fingers  silently, 
Conjuring  joy  from  out  the  depths  of  pain, 
As  after  ebb  the  great  tides  of  the  sea 
Set  to  the  shore  again. 

For  her  the  world  is  great,  and  wide,  and  free ; 
Her  footsteps  touch  the  meadows  into  flame. 
All  love  and  beauty,  death  and  mystery 
Are  hinted  in  the  naming  of  her  name. 
Wind  after  wind  may  hunt  her  down  the  world, 
Sword  upon  sword  may  harry  her  and  mar  .  .  . 
At  last  her  crimson  banners  are  unfurled, 
Beyond  the  last,  dim  star. 


Who'll  Buy  a  Rose 

Who'll  buy  a  rose  ?  Who'll  buy  a  rose  ? 
Little  red  rose-cups  to  catch  the  dew. 
One  for  a  token,  two  for  a  smile, 
Three  if  you'll  love  me  a  little  while ! 
Who'll  buy  a  rose?  Who'll  buy  a  rose? 

Put  away  your  pennies,  your  little  silver  pennies ; 

In  all  the  realm  of  Fairyland  there's  nothing  they  will  buy. 

I  met  a  little  fairy  once,  and  tried  to  buy  a  silver  star ; 

I  met  a  little  fairy  once,  and  tried  to  buy  a  star. 

She  laughed  and  said,  "A  bargain  O ! 

Wise  little  pigs  to  market  go ;" 

(Her  voice  was  sad)  "A  bargain  O — a  penny  for  the  sky ! " 

Put  away  your  pennies,  your  little  silver  pennies, 

Can  they  swim  like  silver  fish,  or  shine  like  silver  stars  ? 

I've  lost  the  way  to  Fairyland,  but  I've  no  rose  to  sell 

to  you ; 

I've  lost  the  way  to  Fairyland, — but  I've  no  rose  to  sell. 
(Her  voice  was  sad — "A  bargain  O  ! 
Wise  little  pigs  to  market  go.") 
O,  I've  no  red,  red  rose  to  sell  to  folk  in  golden  cars. 

Who'll  buy  a  rose?  Who'll  buy  a  rose? 
Little  red  rose-cups  to  catch  the  dew. 
One  for  a  token,  two  for  a  smile, 
Three  if  you'll  love  me  a  little  while ! 
Who'll  buy  a  rose  ?  Who'll  buy  a  rose  ? 


Silver  Pennies 

The  banker's  son  hath  bags  of  gold, 
And  silver  shillings  to  lend ; 
He  bartereth  hours  he  may  not  hoard 
For  coins  he  cannot  spend. 

The  banker's  son  hath  a  violin, 
And  a  magic  bow  so  fine, 
That  weaveth  songs  for  many  a  heart, 
But  never  a  song  for  mine. 

For  my  heart  knoweth  a  secret  place 
To  dwell  the  whole  year  long, 
Where  each  day  bringeth  a  silver  penny, 
And  each  night  bringeth  a  song. 


A  Preacher  in  the  Market 

A  preacher  in  the  market ! 

I  stopped  to  hear, 

And  on  the  market  fell 

The  chiming  of  a  bell. 

Then  far  and  near 

A  voice  like  distant  music  on  my  ear. 

He  said,  "All  men  are  children, 

In  their  play 

Hoarding  as  precious  things 

Pebbles  and  colored  strings, 

The  baubles  gay, 

That  drop  from  tired  hands  at  end  of  day." 

He  said,  "All  men  are  children 

That  laugh  and  weep, 

Striving  they  know  not  why, 

Striving  till,  day  gone  by, 

Weary  and  flushed  they  creep 

Into  the  arms  that  fold  them  into  sleep." 

So  preached  he  in  the  market ! 

Rose  again 

A  din  of  market  cries ; 

Then  in  his  kindly  eyes 

A  smile — as  when 

One  from  the  hills  might  look  at  market  men. 


Day  after  Day 

Day  after  day  she  came  and  went  in  silence, 
About  her  round  of  tasks  from  dark  to  dark, 
Through  streets  which  filth  and  squalor  and  disease 
And  brawling  voices  made  the  courts  of  Hell. 

Within  her  heart  insistent  yearnings  clamored, 
Beneath  her  eyelids  smoldered  dumb  despair ; 
Moulded  of  the  divine — cast  out  to  be 
Chaff  of  the  threshing-floor  upon  the  wind. 

Toil  for  the  crown  of  slow,  undying  hours, 
And  blows  for  guerdon  of  her  bitter  years  .  .  . 
Of  these  she  drew  a  strength  of  sacrifice 
That  hallowed  life  with  mute  nobility. 

But  sometimes  in  the  darkness  kisses  rained 
Upon  her  weary  lips,  and  straining  arms 
Drew  in  her  broken,  frail,  uncherished  form. 
Then  strength  grew  dead  within  her — and  she  wept — 
Great  tears  of  generations  of  despair. 


>  84  «• 


The  Gates  of  Dawn 

Today,  beside  the  dusty  road,  I  dreamed 

Of  half- forgotten  scenes  and  days  of  youth ; 

Of  paths  that  crossed  the  cool,  fresh  fields  at  dawn, 

The  glory  and  the  splendor  of  the  dew, 

Green  leaves  against  the  sun — of  days  that  knew 

The  witchery  and  wonder  of  the  world, 

Clean  winds,  white  rain,  and  stars,  and  children's  laughter, 

Great  argosies  upon  the  summer  brooks, 

And  traffic  with  the  squirrels  of  the  wood ; 

The  quick,  sharp  ring  of  skates  on  winter  ice ; 

Dear,  dreaming  faces  by  the  brushwood  fire, 

And  the  slow,  silent  fall  of  midnight  snow. 

Somewhere  the  land  of  youth  and  love  and  laughter 
Lies  near — so  near,  the  echoes  of  old  songs 
Beat  in  the  stillness  on  a  leaping  heart, 
And  whisperings  of  long-remembered  voices 
Recall  the  dear,  lost  treasure  of  the  years  . . . 

Then  upon  dreaming  eyes  the  vision  falls, 
Through  gates  of  silver,  and  with  aching  hearts 
Men  hear  again  the  long  roll  of  the  sea, 
Beholding  the  dim  sails  of  great,  tall  ships 
That  roamed  the  world ;  and  those  that  lie  a-fevered 
With  life's  slow  pain  seem  once  again  to  feel 
Themselves  upborne  on  the  long  crested  waves 
Of  shoreless  seas ;  viewing  with  unfamiliar  eyes 


The  old  familiar  things  that  hedge  them  in ; 
Hearing  the  rain  that  drummed  upon  the  decks 
Of  ships  long  wrecked  and  driven  with  the  winds ; 
Or  starting  up  from  slumber  at  the  moan 
Of  gales  that  swept  forgotten  lands  of  youth. 

And  women  whose  hearts  have  drunk  so  deep  of  life 

Even  unto  the  lees,  that  all  its  beauty 

Burns  through  the  sadness  that  has  made  them  gray, 

And  all  its  splendor  sleeps  within  their  eyes 

Though  old  and  dim — these  feel  on  weary  brows 

The  winds  that  blew  upon  the  morning  hills, 

Whispering  far  prophecies  of  pain 

Born  of  great  joy,  and  joy  beyond  all  pain ; 

When  they  were  brushed  by  sudden,  unseen  wings, 

And  all  the  ancient  gray  earth  flamed  in  glory 

Beneath  a  god's  feet  shining  on  the  hills. 


4. 


The  Torch-Bearers 

Here  where  the  sloping  meadows  run 
In  laughing  bloom  to  meet  the  sun, 
And  dripping  rain-sweet  apple  trees 
Spill  fragrance  on  the  morning  breeze ; 
Here  where  the  scented  hours  caress 
All  the  green  wood  to  loveliness, 
I  hear  the  bells  of  Princeton  ring 
The  hours  of  another  Spring. 

Mid  trees  enlacing,  green  and  high, 
Three  towers  dream  against  the  sky, 
While  round  them  swirl  and  laugh  and  beat 
The  tides  of  youth  in  Nassau  Street. 
From  field  and  lake,  from  winding  stair, 
Laughing  voices  fill  the  air, 
While  golden  hours  softly  chime 
And  magic  stills  the  pulse  of  time. . 

O  eager  hearts  that  gaily  there 
Run  to  meet  life,  and  find  it  fair, 
Scornful  that  age  so  shrewdly  sips 
The  cup  they  drain  with  thirsting  lips  ! 
O  hope  that  dwells  in  eager  eyes 
Untouched  of  wintry  agonies, 
Smiling  to  see  age  grown  so  slow 
To  stake  life  lightly  at  one  throw  ! 


O  feet  that  pass  the  open  door 

To  come  no  more — to  come  no  more ! 

Years  flower  and  change  and  die  away ; 
Still  comes  new  beauty  with  the  May ; 
Still  flow  the  joyous  tides  of  youth 
Loving  beauty,  seeking  truth, 
Lifting  the  torch  that  age  lays  down. 

O  ivied  walls  !  O  dreaming  town ! 
Who  knows  what  secret  blossoming 
Shall  be  the  glory  of  thy  Spring  *? 


Princeton,  1917 

He  dropped  his  book ;  he  left  his  task ; 

He  cast  his  gown  away, 

Hearing  a  great  cry  in  the  wind : 

"It  is  The  Day— The  Day ! " 

Out  of  the  river  and  under  the  hill, 

His  ship  went  down  the  bay. 

God  knows  the  rose  grew  tall  and  fair 
In  Flanders'  fields,  and  Picardy ; 
And  bird-songs  once  filled  all  the  air 
From  meadow  grass,  and  swaying  tree ; 
God  knows  the  children's  dreams  were  sweet 
As  any  dream  could  be. 

He  rose  at  the  first  bugle-note, 

Putting  his  youth  away, 

With  morning  light  upon  his  face 

And  a  high  heart  and  gay. 

I  think  that  God  hath  blessed  the  ground 

Where  he  lies  today. 


To  H.  C.  B. 

Of  thee,  whom  honor  drew 
As  moon  the  sea, 
What  words  have  we  that  knew 
For  elegy  *? 

Lover  of  truth,  thou  art 
Where  all  is  true ; 
The  whole  that  of  the  part 
Death  doth  renew. 

Lover  of  beauty  thou, 
Beyond  all  art 
Made  one  with  beauty  now, 
And  beauty's  heart. 

Lover  of  chivalry 

And  gentleness, 

Gently  death  deal  with  thee, 

And  slow  time  bless. 


V  )44+ 


A  Christmas  Charm 

Heap  on  the  logs  this  Christmas  Day, 
Fill  all  the  house  with  light  and  cheer, 
That  friends  may  lift  the  latch,  steal  in 
And  linger  here. 

Heap  on  the  logs  this  Christmas  Day, 
To  warm  us  with  a  magic  art, 
That  winter's  chill  may  never  freeze 
Upon  the  heart. 

Heap  on  the  logs  this  Christmas  Day ! 
We'll  conjure  from  their  ruddy  gleams 
A  secret  charm  to  fill  the  year 
With  Christmas  dreams ! 


Nursery  Songs  for  Christmas  Eve 

i 

It  was  a  little  candle,  dear, 

Beside  your  Christmas  tree, 

That  danced,  and  laughed,  and  danced  again, 

And  winked  most  roguishly. 

But  when  the  tree,  unheeding, 
Stood  stiffly  in  his  place, 
The  little  candle  bowed  her  head, 
With  tears  upon  her  face. 

II 

Not  all  the  gleaming  holly, 
And  silver  mistletoe, 
Nor  far,  thin  carols  on  the  air, 
Across  the  drifted  snow, 

Make  up  the  tale  of  Christmas  .  .  . 
But  deep  within  your  eyes 
To  see  the  joy  of  Christmas  shine 
Like  stars  in  Christmas  skies. 


Ill 

Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year, 
So  the  wise  folk  say,  my  dear ; 

But  they  quite  forget  to  say 

That  Christmas  always  comes  to  stay. 

Over  the  drifts  of  this  year's  snow 
Ring  Christmas  bells  of  long  ago ; 

And  by  these  candle-gleams  we  see — 
How  many  a  vanished  Christmas  tree ! 

May  Christmas  joy  and  Christmas  cheer 
Abide  within  this  house,  my  dear  ! 

So  shall  your  heart  still  sing  in  May 
The  songs  you  sang  on  Christmas  Day. 


Three  Songs  for  Christmas 
i 

We'll  hang  the  walls  with  holly  boughs, 
And  silver  mistletoe ; 
We'll  light  a  Yule-flame  on  the  hearth 
And  fill  the  room  with  candle-glow. 

Yet  Love  could  still  keep  Christmas  Day, 
Though  all  the  house  were  bare  .  .  . 
One  song  of  Yuletide  on  your  lips, 
One  spray  of  holly  in  your  hair. 

II 

If  I  could  dress  a  Christmas  tree 
With  all  the  gifts  you've  given  me — 

The  spell  you  weave  in  magic  ways 
Of  quiet  peace  through  all  our  days ; 

The  healing  word,  the  shy  caress, 
The  secret  dream  of  happiness, — 

I'd  hang  them  on  a  Christmas  tree 
And  give  them  back,  my  dear,  to  thee. 


Ill 

Who  hath  nor  purse,  nor  golden  coin, 
Who  holds  no  lands  in  fee, 
He  singeth  gay  on  Christmas  Day 
In  jolly  beggary. 

For  who  hath  nought  to  give  but  love, 
Gives  all  his  heart  away, 
And  giving  all,  hath  all  to  give 
Another  Christmas  Day. 


A  Christmas  Prayer 

God  bless  this  house  on  Christmas  Day, 
And  all  who  in  it  dwell ; 
And  send  us  work,  and  send  us  play, 
And  many  a  glad  Noel. 

God  send  us  store  on  Christmas  Day 
Of  friends,  and  health,  and  mirth ; 
And  bless  us  with  that  dream  alway, 
That  blessed  the  world  on  Christmas  Day 
"Good  will,  and  peace  on  earth." 

And  think  ye  well  on  Christmas  Day 
That  love  is  more  than  art, 
And  the  words  of  love  and  cheer  alway 
Rhyme  well  within  the  heart. 

So  sing  we  all  on  Christmas  Day 
Old  songs  of  Christmas  cheer. 
God  grant  us  brave,  true  words  to  say ; 
Yea !  help  us  live  some  better  way 
In  all  the  glad  new  year. 


The  Walls  of  Hamelin 

So  under  shining,  summer  skies 

The  Piper  stood  with  musing  eyes ; 

The  June  wind  blew  through  Hamelin  town 

Twitching  his  torn  and  tattered  gown. 

Their  cunning  mockery  he  heard 

Unheeding  . . . 

Somewhere  near,  a  bird 
Sang  of  the  sun  and  laughing  dew, 
Sang  of  the  scented  earth  he  knew 
Beyond  the  town,  beyond  the  moat, 
Where  laughter  bubbled  in  the  throat, 
Where  men  were  free,  where  life  was  warm, 
Unsmitten  of  the  icy  storm 
That  numbs  the  heart. 

The  Piper  stirred 
As  at  some  half-forgotten  word ; 
His  fingers  on  his  pipes  of  reed 
Touched  all  the  stops — and  paused ;  indeed 
Like  dreamers  in  the  dawn  of  day 
Half-waking  at  the  scent  of  May. 

He  lifted  up  his  eyes,  and  lo ! 
Drab  streets  unlit  by  any  glow 
Of  sun,  or  silver  of  the  stars ; 
Drab  houses  locked  with  iron  bars  . . . 
A  place  of  faithless,  scornful  men 
Sunk  in  their  ledger-world  again, 


Who  drove  the  gray  rats  from  the  mart, 
But  let  them  nest  within  the  heart ; 
Selling  life  with  market  cries 
That  rose  like  smoke  to  steely  skies. 

Then  in  the  sudden  stillness  fell 
A  thin,  sweet  strain,  a  silver  spell ; 
And  from  the  pipes  of  reed  there  flowed 
Songs  of  the  sea,  the  winding  road, 
The  warm  earth's  scented,  sunny  mirth, 
And  love  that  had  no  market  worth : 

Love  is  the  heart's  desire 
For  the  moon — for  the  star. 
With  frail  wings  that  aspire 

To  all  heavens  that  are. 

\ 

No  houses  built  with  hands. 
No  walls  of  stone. 
Rise  in  the  laughing  lands 
Love  calls  her  own. 

Love  goeth  where  love  will 
By  land  and  sea, 
Breaking  all  bonds  until 
The  world  is  free  . . . 

And  as  the  reed-notes  drifted  down 
The  cobble  streets  of  Hamelin  town 


Like  sudden  fragrance  in  a  room 
From  rain-washed  lilac  boughs  in  bloom 
The  burghers  stirred  uneasily, 
Fearful  what  thing  might  come  to  be 
With  such  songs  sung  before  the  door 
As  never  in  Hamelin  town  before. 

But  in  each  barred  and  shuttered  house 
The  children,  still  as  any  mouse, 
Stood  motionless  to  hear  that  strain 
Drifting  like  sweet  April  rain 
From  some  far  land  of  singing  skies 
Whose  blue  still  slumbered  in  their  eyes, 
Some  fairyland  of  golden  light 
They  half-remembered  in  the  night. 

Still  sweet  and  sweeter  flowed  the  song, 

As  clear,  cool  waters  slip  along 

A  fern-rimmed  bank — more  sweet,  more  sweet, 

Till  every  winding,  cobble  street 

Was  filled  with  sound  of  little  feet . . . 

Before  their  eyes  the  river  ran 

With  laughter  never  heard  of  man, 

And  meadow  grass  and  orchard  tree 

Sang  an  ancient  melody ; 

The  gray  walls  melted  from  their  sight 

And  blue  skies  filled  with  morning  light. 


Laughing,  dancing  in  the  sun, 
Like  echoes  of  the  song  begun, 
Beyond  the  walls,  beyond  the  town, 
With  streaming  hair  and  flying  gown, 
Amid  the  stillness  of  the  noon, 
Under  the  golden  sun  of  June, 
They  followed,  followed,  to  the  hill 
The  singing  pipes  that  drew  them  still 

Love  is  older  than  life, 
And  longer  than  breath; 
Love  is  bolder  than  strife. 
And  stronger  than  death. 

Over  the  hills  of  dawn 
And  far  away, 
Soft  on  the  dewy  lawn 
Her  white  feet  stray. 

Except  ye  seek  as  a  child, 
With  a  child's  heart, 
Loveliness  defiled 
Shall  be  your  part. 

Love  goeth  where  love  will 
By  land  and  sea, 
Breaking  all  bonds  until 
The  world  is  free. 


Love  is  the  heart's  desire 
For  the  moon — for  the  star, 
With  frail  wings  that  aspire 
To  all  heavens  that  are  . . . 

Faint  and  fainter  flowed  the  strain ; 
Fainter — and  ceased — and  grew  again 
Then  died  away  to  come  no  more, 
As  with  the  shutting  of  a  door, 
Save  for  a  far,  thin  fairy  quill 
Blown  in  the  grasses  on  the  hill. 


,YC !  06993 


M89175 


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